


Digging a Hole, to Bury My Soul

by Lemon_Drizzle



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Aftermath, Gen, Headcanon, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 09:50:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lemon_Drizzle/pseuds/Lemon_Drizzle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki has been captured by The Other and a band of Chitauri on the journey back to Asgard at the end of The Avengers. The Other isn't too happy with the way things turned out, and he takes it out on Loki, through Chitauri-proxy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Digging a Hole, to Bury My Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Liberties taken with what can possibly happen during wormhole-travel. Also, headcanon note at end.

The Other tipped his head, and Loki tensed every muscle in his body to keep from crying out as a Chitauri warrior, not quite the last of its kind, cracked the whip on his bare chest once again. He would not let them see his pain. He would not beg for mercy.

The Other grinned. He already knew the hurt that he must have been causing the prince, if the blood running in streaks down his torso was any clue. But he wanted to hear it.

He waved away the Chitauri with the whip, and beckoned another with a crook of two fingers. It approached from behind Loki, and he couldn’t see what it carried as it continued to face its master.

”You have failed us, fallen Prince of Asgard,” he said to Loki. “We gave you an army, we gave you the sceptre, we showed you the power of the Tesseract, and you have failed us.”

Loki looked on from the boulder to which his hands and feet were chained. They had taken his cloak, his armor, his tunic, and his boots. He knew not how they had retrieved his helmet, but it was there on his head, mocking him with its regal weight. He would not let them take his dignity. He would not defend himself against their impudence. His silver tongue would remain silent.

”How it would have pleased us to catch the Heir of Asgard as well as the Interloper,” the Other rasped. “But the magic held him too strongly to the Path of the portal. You were easy to grab, easy to keep. The magic betrayed you as you have betrayed us.”

He nodded to the second Chitauri, who turned around and gave Loki the first glimpse of what it held. He felt the cold panic seep through himself as he recognized a branding iron—it was a crude lump on the end, but glowing hot.

The Other either saw his chest rising and falling faster, or could hear his heart beating twice as quickly as before. The grin widened.

”Yes, you will burn, fallen one, and then the Chitauri will follow the Path to Asgard, and the _Æsir_ will burn too. The head of your un-brother will be brought back for you—you will see that they could succeed where you should forever fail. Then you will join him in _Niflheim_.”

Loki’s mouth dropped open. This was not how things were meant to happen at all.

”Do it,” the Other instructed, and the soldier stalked forward, the iron held out straight in front of itself.

Loki braced himself and bit the inside of his lip, knowing that the heat would hurt him as much as the worst pain he had ever felt. But he was not prepared—the orange, glowing metal touched the skin over his heart and sank in with a wet hiss, and he threw his head back with a feral scream.

” _NYYYAAAAAGGGHHH!_ ”

The rod was pulled away, taking blood and bits of charred skin with it. Loki heaved in breath after breath, and retched when he smelled his own burning flesh. He only just turned his head in time so nothing landed in the wound.

”Put him in the hole with food and water. When he awakens, he will meet his fate with full stomach.”

He didn’t resist when two Chitauri undid his bindings and half-dragged him down a dim tunnel to a small hole in the wall. He stumbled as they pushed him through the opening, and while he tried to get his bearings in the dark room, he heard the sound of the food landing on stone beside him. It smelled like stale bread and turning meat.

The two guards closed him off by rolling a boulder in front of the hole. There was no light in the cell, but he could still see. The rock walls and floor were fluorescent, and they cast an eerie glow over his already pale skin.

The hole in his chest was still seeping. He wondered why it and the whip injuries weren’t healing. Even at his weakest, they should have been closing up already. He held his palm over the crude brand and tried magic.

He felt nothing.

He concentrated harder and tried again. Still nothing.

He wondered if he was too weak. It didn’t seem as if he was, but he chewed his way through the tough bread. The flank of meat would be a last resort.

A small pile of crumbs had accumulated in his lap. He brushed them to the floor and placed his hand a few inches above them.

They didn’t even tremble.

It must be the rock, he figured. It must neutralize his abilities. He was not bound or watched—it would not be difficult to overpower him if he had only the strength of a mortal. He wondered how deep the rock went, if he could tunnel out past its boundaries, if he could transport himself to Asgard and save the people from the Chitauri invasion.

This was not how things were meant to happen at all. Asgard would fall, and Thor would meet his end—but at _his_ hand. Loki would have it no other way.

He removed his helmet and looked inside. If it was just a replica of the regalia, he held little hope of regaining control.

But he saw the groove on the inner crown of the head, and the golden utensil fitted snugly into it. He pried it out with his slim finger and cupped it gently in his hand. It was a spoon, but it had short, stubby tines like a fork would.

It was his pudding _foon_ , designed and constructed by his own hand of the strongest metal of Asgard when he was but a boy. He and Thor used to sneak to the dessert table when they should have been eating supper, and while Thor was content to stuff his face with his bare hands, Loki’s deviance was controlled and refined.

He had tried to conjure a spoon or fork, depending on the type of pudding, but he hadn’t grown into his magic yet. The utensil always came out as whatever form of dessert he was after—shortbread, _melkesjokolade_ , and even _kanel_. _That_ experience certainly hadn’t been pleasant—it was as if he had bitten into the tree from which the bark was harvested.

He had supposed that until he could learn to concentrate, an actual utensil would have to do. He concealed it in his leather wristbands well enough growing up, but he grew fond of it as he got older and wanted it with him always when he went out with Thor on their great hunting expeditions. He would never debase himself by eating like the animals they were hunting.

He couldn’t pin down when he decided to carve out the groove in his helmet. Perhaps because it was a more unmistakable sign of his nobility than his vambraces—any warrior wore those. And the distinction that feeding himself with his _foon_ matched it altogether perfectly with his golden headpiece.

Loki crawled over to a wall and began to scrape. The rock crumbled easily. Less than half of a meter in, the fluorescence faded. The time and energy it would take to get far enough away to release his magic would be a great test to his resolution, but he was determined to stop the premature slaughter of the people he had once called family.

He went back to the meat and tore into it, though it was past its prime. He was not an animal—he was on a mission.

He did not know how much time passed as he scraped, shoveled, brushed away loose rubble. Not five meters in, in a tunnel not much taller than himself in a prone position, he placed his hand over his chest and concentrated on healing himself.

He felt the bleeding stop completely and the wound start to close, and let out a victorious roar. The walls and floor beneath his body trembled, and pieces of the ceiling dropped onto his back.

It was going to collapse. He was going to be buried.

As the rock around him shook and rumbled, he used his recouped magic to hold it steady. It wouldn’t last, he knew. His strength would fade—he could feel himself weakening already—the rubble would cover him, and he would never have his vengeance on those who had wronged him.

And if he could teleport from here? His magic knew the way—he had his own Path. But was he strong enough for the trip?

If it worked, it worked—he would be on Asgard, and he would plan from there. If it didn’t…he was dead anyway—and he would not die a coward.

He closed his eyes, gripped his _foon_ , and thought one word: _Brother._

**Author's Note:**

> A group of friends and I decided that Loki must love pudding as much as the mortal who wears his face, and as such, would have a secret slot in his helmet to hold a utensil so that he was prepared to enjoy pudding whenever the opportunity presented itself, whether silverware was laid out or not.
> 
> Also, a note on the last word: Some of you may be thinking, If Loki hates Thor so much, why did he say "Brother" when "Thor" would have done the trick too? Well, I belong to that part of the fandom that believes that Loki is not past redemption. He may hate Thor, and he may never be again the Loki they knew and loved (personally, I don't think it's ever going to happen because he's too weak, but that's a story for another time), but IT. IS. STILL. POSSIBLE. And there is a fine line between love and hate, which Loki dances on like a ballerino.


End file.
